A chill traveled down her spine, and it had nothing to do with the cool morning air. A dark memory threatened to take hold, and she performed her daily ritual of pushing it aside. She took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and exhaled slowly, keeping her eyes focused on the sunrise and her ears on the sound of the waves. She felt the icy metal railing beneath her palms and forced herself to remain in the present.
Despite her efforts, the memory broke through. An image flashed in her mind. Jarrod Hawkins was standing over Borya—the old Borya. She heard her own cries for mercy as the brutal vigilante fed a dark substance into her husband’s brain.
And then the moment was gone. The horrible vision faded away and was replaced by a bone-deep sensation of peace. A smile tugged at the edges of her lips. From her experience in clinical psychology, she knew she was experiencing symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress. But she also had a cure flowing through the intricate web of blood vessels within her brain: billions upon billions of nanomachines, each bearing the touch of the resurrected Borya Tabanov. He had given her a minute dose—not enough to rewrite her psyche entirely, for he valued her as an individual—but enough to make their minds in tune as they had never been before. And the machines had a welcome side-effect; whenever the tragic moments from her past threatened to overwhelm her, the machines stimulated a rush of endorphins within her brain. She was on the road to perfect mental health, and she had the love of her life to thank for it.
Her smile broadened. She had to give herself credit, too. After all, she had been the one to carry Borya’s consciousness out of the doomed Siberian Palace, and she had placed that consciousness within a new host, resurrecting Borya from the dead. Without her, Katharos would be nothing but a footnote in the annals of history, and she would be destined to spend the rest of her life without an equal by her side. For no one could match her powerful intellect. No one but Borya Tabanov.
The double-paned glass door behind her slid open, and a soothing voice called to her.
“My love? You should come inside. It is too cold.”
She shook her head and continued to stare out at the sea. “I’m not cold.” She held out her hand. “You should join me.”
Borya stepped forward and clasped her hand. He stood with perfect posture, and the wires and tubes protruding from his scalp swayed in the soft breeze. “For you, I would endure the icy cold of the northern shores. But for the baby’s sake, we must not linger too long.”
Emily nodded slowly, and her left hand traced an outline around her round abdomen. She watched a frothy wave break in the distance, and she followed it with her eyes. “The entire world has become like the Black Sea.”
Borya followed her gaze, then raised his chin. She could tell that he had already guessed her thoughts, but she voiced them anyway. “Humanity appears unstoppable on the surface, full of life, destined for greatness. But go a little deeper…” She shook her head. “And there is nothing but death. Homo sapiens stand in deluded triumph upon the graves of their ancestors, in denial that they are doomed to the same fate.”
“But we will breathe life back into the world,” Borya said. “Perfect, unending life.”
At last, Emily snapped out of her reverie and faced Borya. She kissed him deeply, and the warmth of his lips sparked desire within her. Several seconds passed, and she pulled away, her cheeks reddening. “Is the camera ready?”
“It is.”
She took his hand and pulled him toward the door. “Then let’s teach the ignorant masses a lesson they will never forget. And afterward…” Her eyes twinkled. “I have plans for you.”
7
Chicago, Illinois
Bryce Larson hated hospitals. The sights and smells of wounded and sickly patients reminded him how fragile the human body was. And the staff—they always looked weary and emotionless, like lifeless drones. It was as if the looming presence of death had drained their life force prematurely.
And the knowledge that his father was breathing his last breaths in this very hospital made Bryce hate it all the more. He quickened his pace, cutting past a column of visitors who had queued in the reception area.
“Sir…” the receptionist started to say, but Bryce cut him off.
“Which way to hospice?”
The receptionist, who shared the same defeated demeanor as everyone else on the staff, pushed a clipboard toward Bryce. “You’ll need to sign in. Who are you visiting?”
“My father, William Larson.”
The receptionist reached into a drawer and withdrew a plastic badge on a lanyard. “And what’s your relationship to the patient?”
Bryce clenched his jaw. “Like I said, he’s my father. Which would make me his son.”
“Excuse me,” someone behind him said. “Did he just cut in line?”
Bryce cast a menacing glance over his shoulder. “Listen, dickhead, my father’s dying. I’m sorry if I’m a little impatient.”
“Please watch your language, sir.”
Bryce turned, thinking the receptionist had given him the stern warning. But the man behind the desk was busy filling out a form. The warning had come from a security guard who was leaning against the wall, his thumbs hooked into his pockets.
Bryce took a deep breath and let it out as slowly as he could. He placed his palms on the receptionist’s desk and said, “Hospice?”
The man didn’t look up. “Second floor, East Wing.”
Bryce didn’t thank the receptionist. He set out with the visitor’s pass clutched in his fist, shouldering past men and women in scrubs as he marched, head down, toward the stairwell.
The grating clamor and claustrophobic tension were less noticeable in the hospice wing. The nurse at the desk who directed him to his father’s room actually pretended to care.
Bryce frowned and shortened his stride as he drew closer to the room. His sister, Janet, was waiting outside the room with her husband.
“Here we go,” Bryce whispered under his breath. He stopped two paces away from his sister and brother-in-law, out of striking distance for awkward hugs or handshakes. “Janet, Grant,” he said, giving each of them a curt not. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just…”
He tried to squeeze past them, but his sister blocked his path. “It’s been three years, Bryce. Can you at least say ‘hello?’”
“What’s the hurry? Are you dying, too?”
Janet folded her arms across your chest. “You know I’m not.”
“Well Dad is. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to spend a few minutes talking to the only real family I have left before he leaves me forever.” He tried to push into the room once more, and she caught him by the arm.
“Bryce, he’s not…” She lowered her chin. “He’s not saying much. Mom wanted a few minutes alone with him to…” Her grip tightened. “To pray.”
Bryce’s eyes widened, and his cheeks reddened. “I can’t believe you people. Can’t you keep your stupid superstitions to yourselves for five minutes?” He ripped his arm free. “The least you can do is honor a man’s wishes while he’s lying on his deathbed.”
He forced the door open and stood at the edge of the small room, refusing to believe his eyes.